Long Forms Poems
Long Forms Poems. Below are the most popular long Forms by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Forms poems by poem length and keyword.
Alas, you may have noticed if
you’ve looked around the world these days,
you don’t see werewolves or zombies,
no vampires or mummies at play.
The whole world seems to have lost that
thade of mystery we once knew,
The creatures that stalked us of old
have become remarkably few.
There’s still a few out there, I know,
good old Dogman up in Michigan,
but for many of these creatures
their wild days have come to an end.
Now what’s the reason for this loss?
What has brought about this strange thing?
That’s easy enough to explain,
we humans are great at killing!
Yes, just as with normal animals,
we kill off what might be a threat,
something threaten might endanger out lives
is something that we can’t abet.
So just like predators and small pox
we saw the job was done,
heck, we published how to kill them
in all of our horror fiction!
Stakes, silver, garlic, and headshots,
we let all the world know how to win,
to the point out nights have become safe,
free of all the creatures of sin.
But if you still want to see them
then I have some good news for you,
you can see them all down at the
Endangerer Horror Species Zoo!
Now we got ghouls, goblins, wendigos,
your Demons, your banshees, and sprites,
we got all of the B-team monsters,
but most folks come for the big five.
I guess we should start with the werewolf,
each must roam in his own separate pen,
their spacious and lined in silver leaf,
we don’t want them getting out again.
The only ones left are the old ones,
so old they no longer transform,
they just stay werewolves all the time,
apparently this is the norm.
whatever the case, it’s good for us,
people can see them fur and all,
through a foot-thick one way mirror
that forms the enclosure front wall.
These eight foot beasts eat messily,
yet people gather when they feed,
yhey act appalled by the whole thing,
Yet they consistently watch the scene.
And when those lycans howl loud
it pieces right down to the soul,
ten times the fear of a normal wolf,
the spine tingles, and blood runs cold.
But people like feeling afraid
so long as they know they are safe,
sometimes we’ll drop a rabbit in there
so folks can watch the beast give chase.
Why do so few of these beast remain?
think silver bullets plus machine gun,
most of them now are heads on a wall,
we’re luck to have more than one...
CONTINUES IN PART II.
This poem was inspired by the interviews by Earl K. Pollon and S. S. Matheson conducted with native Sekanni peoples who were negatively effected by the flooding of their communal homelands by the building of the W.A.C. Bennett Dam. “This Was Our Valley” tells that story of injustice. 640 square miles of riverfront and hunting territory would be flooded to form Williston Lake. The Sekanni peoples were driven from their ancestral homeland in northeastern British Columbia, Canada and dispersed.
The Shopping Cart Injustice
People, place and spirit
All were our relations
Biopeds, quadrupeds, winged or finned -
River language told us so.
Fishing rocks spoke the run
Where the riffles and the rapids talked.
Ancestors, dead and alive, told living stories where
Running the river banks, the children played.
The land was a book written in forms.
We made our mark with love, community
Fishing weirs, aspen dugout canoes,
Hunting trails, camps and sacred sites.
Always traders, we traded furs with
White settlers when they arrived
On the rivers Parsnip, Finlay and Peace at
Finlay Forks, Fort Grahame, Fort McLeod.
We added pack trains, teams of pack horses
River freighters, flat bottom ‘longboats’
For supplies and for mail delivery.
It seemed that we could live together.
Then one day a government agent said
That shopping carts were coming
They would flood our world
Water rising everywhere
Shopping carts with electric can openers
Full, fast to check out,
Shopping carts with electric hair blowers,
Full, faster to check out,
Shopping carts with electric air conditioners,
Full, fastest to check out
Shopping carts with electric stoves.
Check out, check out, check out.
They would make our rivers into a lake
We would move or drown.
Our elders did not believe it.
That was the only consultations!
Soon Saskatoon berries all under water
Next, the banks sloughed back to graveyards
Next, cliffs crumbled, and banks fell into rising lake
Houses of the villages slipped and floated
Coffins, bones and bodies strewed the shore
Where tangled trees, debris and more
Eddied with flotsam in the wind.
We wept for our ancestors!
We weep for our children.
We had to flee the destruction
Caused by tree grinders, D-9 bull dozers
The dam construction.
Now they want to take more
Another dam for more shopping carts.
Please stop Site ‘C’.
I just wanted to thank Poetry Soup for, well, for being, for existing as a format for poets to share their hearts and souls. I can hardly believe it's been 6 years (gulp!) since I first posted a poem here--it was about that time that I started writing poetry again after a 30 plus year hiatus since I stopped writing anything in my early 30's. Why I stopped or why I began again, I don't know: Who can explain creativity? But somehow I found Soup and well, a community. So may I thank, on behalf of that community, all you unsung heroes who maintain the 'Soup'.
And as to all those who add their 'ingredients' into the Soup, let me commend ALL of you. In those same 6 years I have not read a single poem that was pretentious, egotistical, idiosyncratic to the point of being so obscure as to seem meaningless--in other words, so called 'modern' contemporary poetry as favored by a depressing number of lit mags today. I've learned at last to stop wasting my time submitting to such [and certainly not if they demand a reading fee] as I-- fool that I am-- continually strive to find meaning in both what I write and what I read. One editor even warned not to send anything that 'conveyed' a meaning, and in no uncertain terms did he want did he want to hear anything about the soul or the heart or-God forbid!- God.
I suspect this is why so many people are turned off by modern poetry today-- and who can blame them? Wasting time reading a bunch of big/obscure/erudite words strung together, only to scratch your head wondering what the hell did that all mean? The best poems are often very simple: 'to be or not to be', 'death kindly stopped for me', 'the Lord is my shephard' -- but they always take you SOMEWHERE [though it may not be a place you immediately recognize]. The best poems, I believe, increase awareness, not leaving you feeling confused, perplexed, frustrated ['what the hell did that mean?' ] This does not mean they give you answers --but they may suggest some. And as modern society becomes increasingly at odds with itself, at risk quite literally of fragmenting, some insight would seem as valuable as it is rare.
The contests are fun at Soup and many demonstrate how clever and knowledgeable Soupers are about the myriad poetical forms. I have to say, though, I wish there were more thematic contests--open to any form that served to enlighten the proposed theme.
Though (supposedly) only
the good die young, urn holding
cremated ashes a mere cup
full, every last man standing falls,
cuz nobody else
escapes un pup
yule lore blitzkrieg,
or aging gracefully,
the unavoidable eventual fate,
(mortal fateful demise),
sans the remaining unsung
anonymous peoples meet up
with the grim reaper,
who will ineluctably disrupt
the carryings on
with each and every individual
(non plus ultra all other
life forms as well)
gradually or with abrupt,
and unannounced debut
scythe lent lee appearing
to whisk away the
honest and/or corrupt
whether taking their
first meal of the day,
and/or last sup
per, perhaps sitting quietly,
when body electric
amp pare rent lee
receives ohm
my word fatal invite,
whereat permanent shocking
quiescence doth, sans
stealth maneuver erupt
tragically, indiscriminately,
and blithely
mowing down innocent civilians,
and/or training fate squarely
upon heads of soldiers
life during wartime,
where opposing armies regale
while marching men go hup...
to three fore (akin
to a story field day),
winning booby prize, viz
counting on qua,
asper winning lottery
and/or Stanley Cup
major blood bath rendered
significant counting coup
whereat each opposing fighting
force figuratively doth slew
the other, analogously dost defeat
making mince meat
re: as uniformed brigades in heat
of wanton killing
fields sliced minced,
chopped nada so vary neat,
via stealth unable dupe, nor cheat
death be not proud,
et cetera, nonetheless,
grimly forced to greet
a bonanza coup won,
only tubby beat
tin to pulp by adept
skull and excellent fleet
of foot (top
notch crafted) sweet
(albeit) temporary victory
tasting said treat
assailing, bruiting , and/or
weathering stance versus
alternating between defensive
and/or offensive
use of cross bones,
in a hail of bullets
instantaneously didst greet
fast and furious i.e. suffering
deadly raking har row
ring slaughter, an entire
phalanx gone, where
(metaphorical terrible swift sword)
no uniformed fighter
can never call retreat.
Greeted by the multi-lit display
draped over the hedges
and the railing of our front porch,
the brilliant lit Christmas tree
winks at us, welcoming us home
from the Christmas Eve Mass.
You settle comfortably in your chair
as I walk into the dining room.
Sitting down, I light the lone candle
on the table and contemplate
its flame, dancing and whirling
in the darkened room.
The flame draws me
into its story.
Its bright yellow light
thinly framed in blue,
speaks to me about
many dark places
penetrated by its light:
caverns and street corners,
vast fields and mighty forests,
tall buildings and small homes,
and the darkest place of all
… the human heart.
The flame tells the story
of a long time ago,
of a world enveloped
in the darkest of nights.
Violence and cruelty,
poverty and pestilence
heaped upon a brutalized,
battered and lost humanity.
In a miserable stable,
its walls and floor painted
in manure and straw,
the dark dank smell of
wet hay, and its livestock denizens
filling the air, there lies
in a feed trough a light more brilliant
than the dancing flame.
The flame of that light
dances in the eyes
of his homeless parents,
his mother who birthed him,
and his proud, protective father.
The light is reflected
in the eyes of the animals
shuffling about in their stalls,
and in the eyes of the shepherds
and the travelers from afar.
My gaze, fixed on the flame,
widens as I detect
other shadowy shapes
around the table.
I sit in communion with
my father and my mother,
my sister and my brother,
their lives, like others,
lived in various degrees
of perfection and imperfection,
drawn to this light whilst alive,
and now in the life beyond,
join with me transfixed
by the light of the candle.
I smile to be once again
in their company, and,
with a nod and a parting glance
their shapes slip back
into the shadows of the room.
Once more alone with the light,
an image forms in my mind,
that eternal light birthed
in Bethlehem so long ago,
which danced in the eyes
of Mary and Joseph,
in the eyes and hearts
of many burdened by the weight
of scandal and shame,
poverty and despair,
which the world was unable
to crush and snuff out,
this light will always be there
to guide and to light me
through the dark corners
of my life yet to be,
to the eternal Christmas awaiting me.
When the wood to the fire that fuels us runs out and our flame flickers within, we can fully rely on God’s illuminating lantern that can be seen through all forms of darkness, confusion, and has the everlasting flame of hope and a wick that never runs short. Stay in the light.
Hope is like a flame that never gives up its brightness or shine. Some days the ugly side of life opens its mouth wide and spews troublesome wind that howls and screams, trying to snuff out that flame. Other days the still flame stands alone and just wants to be found so that it may give you comfort and relief, but is often overlooked. Nerveless the flame shines on.
Hope is the security that you attain in life so you can have reassurance within you that you will not be overtaken by adversities. It is a free gift of precious armor constructed in Heaven by the finest of angels. The armor was melted down into shape, measured perfectly, and given to you to wear for all of this life like an inflated vest that keeps your head above the violent waves that this life can try to drown you in.
Hope is the promise of rain when the sky is full of storm clouds. Hope is in the night when you’re praying for morning to come quicker. Hope is in the young and the old. Hope is for the hopeless. Hope is a robe of love that is a one size fits all. Hope will find you before you seek it out. Hope offers itself to you like a secure shelter to take refuge in like being in the middle of a relentless storm. Hope always has its arms wide open for you. Take a step closer and embrace hope in an everlasting bond.
Hope will make you put one foot in front of the other to the point where your left foot will be jealous that your right foot is taking a step ahead and then your right foot will be jealous about your left foot going forward until that gentle walk in the light becomes to be a joyful and exciting sprint to the next part of life.
Dear Lord,
Lead us to stable ground and refuge for our aching hearts to rest and heal.
Help us not to overlook the hope that You offer.
We venture to far places in this life God.
We know that You are before us so that we may follow You in Your loving foot steps.
God, You love everyone and anyone.
For Your love is infinite and gentle.
Jesus Christ, blow Your powerful wind our way so our sails can catch the current and lead us to smoother sailing. Amen.
Form:
Two faithful souls stand listless in the great big tower
overlooking the stranded city that once stood tall
yearning for a quiet place to lay their heads
while far beyond the deserted land
a soft blue light gleams gracefully above tranquil skies,
dancing shadows rocking to midnight tunes,
and sweet melodies echoing from the gigantic moon.
She spans more than a thousand feet long soaking
up the exhausted earth, her immeasurable depths
cuts and carve through valleys and streams
with clear blue water and powdery white sand
what more could you ask for on that distant land.
They have been planning this trip for many years,
but when the time draws near their saving disappears.
An empty refrigerator with two trays of frozen ice
lean against the corner of the kitchen
in their ten bedroom mansion
and a bare pantry exposing a slice of mildew bread
filled with little mice nibbling and playing tug of war.
Not many people knew their story
they have been broke for twenty years
but lived a painful lie, cutting corners
making back door transaction,
eating lamb and turkey from profits
made from sordid deals.
Their empire that once stood tall hangs in dismay
While it watches the world going up in flame
by those who continue to play treacherous games.
Sobibor and Hiroshima horrors of the past
Should have cleared the way for a more sophisticated path
But now athoroughfare mixed with complexity
packed with insidiousness
have ducks walking around
quacking without wings or tails
They finally got an offer to go to Utopia.
with packed bags not a penny in their name,
they set off for Utopia hoping to find a new life again
but when they got their it was the same old begrimed game.
Their entire world has been shaken,
shaken by its own guilt and self-reproach,
the transgression that their ancestors have borne
have been handed down for generations to shoulder
A land that they believe was pure and holy
has turned into nightmare and horror
dreadful things dismount in dark corners
women raped strangers abused
yet religion forms the core of the throne
They have witnessed empires toppled,
Kingdoms have fallen in their sight
Rulers have shaken and wept bitterly
causing the great big god to balance the scale
but blackmail in Utopia remains a formidable game
©2013 Christine Phillips
Riding a roller coaster
Propelled by life’s velocity
Governed by instincts and thought
Driven by an urge to emerge victorious
Sentience deadened to conscience
Flitting thus from desire to desire
We built an imaginary script
Of narrow ego identity
Some conquests won
We saw not unshed tears
Of mute weaker souls wasted
Owing to our callous, feral savagery
Likewise, we encountered defeat
Whereupon we steadied heart
Resolving to rise once again
Imagining ego as the doer
Our face in the mirror
Reflected pride and conceit
Beggars too began looking away
Recognising our cold, hard countenance
So it chanced to pass that by grace
One day we chose to look within
Shocked to see soul shrivelled
Lonely in our bleeding heart
We stopped the flow of time
Frozen for what seemed eternity
Crying out silently into the vast void
Wishing to be healed and feel complete
A divine voice instantly responded
Asking if our resolve was strong
To walk the talk as affirmed
In thought, word and deed
The path simple and direct
Liken it to a hop-on hop-off bus
We hop off the ego bus and choose love
Shifting consciousness from head to heart
Voice of conscience grew stronger
We dwelt not on material gain
Shifting into mindfulness
A stillness continuum
Yet love that is imbibed
Takes time for assimilation
But what matters time any more
To the one who has since vaporised
In timeless time ensconced in bliss
Empowered by a magnetic pulse
Which we may give any name
Kundalini or The Holy Spirit
Baptised in the stream
Twice born, we yet lived on
Our soul within, one with oneness
Seeing now earth life as but a lucid dream
Wherein we are being breathed by God
As He does for all sentient life forms
To fulfil our soul’s smallest wish
Now aligned with love alone
Now we do honestly confess
We know not what scriptures say
All we affirm from our life experience
Is that once we align with God’s love impulse
For each step we take, He leaps forward
Gathering us in His warm embrace
Lighting the lamp of love within
Darkness then is no more
20-January-2022
Repent and Believe Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Poem inspired by the contest prompt: 1 John 1:9 KJV - If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.
Was the purpose of your absence an attempt at causing me pain?
That crippling feeling, a spider spinning its web inside my mind.
That arachnid, poisonous, jeers the word space like a handicap.
That parasitic relationship forms a cloud covering the moonlight,
A fog that swirls like a whirlpool in your absence. How rapturous
Your paradox forming a bridge made from our memories. Broken and
Reshaped they become the foundation to a journey in that sea you
Created within me. Your withered emotions and fleeting empathy
were a false proposition of hope only a jester would find funny.
An exhibition of animosity lies in the silent waves – waiting –
for our sunset. How beautiful its rays are against the black water;
falling into the abyss, hidden under that rain your pseudo blanket.
Does the sunrise when you are blind? Does the moon set when
You can’t see the sky? That colorblind man sits there on the beach
Looking in silence. He cannot see his reflection within the water, he
Stands and walks to its surface. There he finds a crow crippled, limping
In the ripples where his reflection should be. That psychedelic feeling
Draws in his drowning breathe, falling into the sea. Paramount to his
Survival the man drowns, his understanding a paradox in his memory.
Only he, the crow, remembers the light of the moon. Its pompous shape,
that transcendent light, a memory to your decay. Only when yellow hits
the eyes of the crow will that white light fade beyond the thunderstorm.
He cries to the heavens, yet his speech murmurs under the weight. That
Black water suffocates his prayer, but he finds comfort in his anonymity. In
the presence of absence the crow longs for loss. He who is stolen from
wishes to be further buried, lost in the waves. That siren sings a fading
melody back into his ears. His own prayer an anchor tied to his feet,
crippled in your memory. Fractured in his own faith, what god heard
his suffering, his murmurs clots of air in a salty sea; black as the blood
from the wound you carved out in his chest. What blessing filled
his misery, that pseudo composition you create is a platter filled
with the feather of the crow. His words held sweet your grace,
an ensemble dancing in the mind of the forgotten. in the sea of
his followers he is Poseidon, yet still the crow sank, anchored in misery.
Written: December 02, 2023
Quote "Without birth and death, and without the perpetual transmutation of all the forms of life, the world would be static, rhythm-less, undancing, mummified." Alan Watts
________________________________________
“we woke up early one morn, ego shorn
it felt as though we were in form reborn
nodes within stirred, boundaries blurred
our head and heart, with love concurred”
I deploy discursive divine depiction as a guide.
A gateway to Genesis, where it takes its side.
Unbridled and untamed, my voice may rise.
I pursued knowledge out of pure surprise.
Low-frequency vibes induce a shift in shape.
Scarcity leads to transmutation, of spare scape.
Alchemists transmute leads to sacred gold.
Metal sheds its genius luster in the kiln hold.
I waltz freely with doom in the gloom.
I inhale oxygen to marvel at life's bloom.
I endure steps yet disappear in the dream.
Structure is unaffected by the skill stream.
Love is my soul—my reason for existence.
Living in lavish love is a lifelong vow of diligence.
A mind, weaved with such insight, was so warm.
I flaunt my firm frame in this fabulous form.
When you are feeling opulent and egotistical.
Those who are dominant were miscible.
Departure might induce an unfillable hole.
Descry a suitable way to purify your soul.
There are ecstatic and tragic days, love and hate.
No matter how tough we strive, this will be our fate.
Note how sporadic and fleeting life is; spot the stride.
Our days of tribulation bruised our noble pride!
Rather than succumbing to hatred and rage.
Turning negative into a rising trend of assuage
Let trust and troth tackle tricks and malicious
Such a restrained demeanor is truly auspicious.
Within, most consensus spans are wide.
It's all whim; scatter love and watch it glide.
Trust your scintilla—trek to the boundless sea.
We may all profit from sowing wisdom trees.
Conquered the most-dubbed landmass on Earth.
And yearning to discover raw levels of worth!
Death, then delirious with deceit, drove his life.
A wicked beast embedded himself in strife!
A susurrus sparkle to the shimmering love.
Enhances adieu strut below the moon above.
Breeze says, "Love on, my dear, and dance."
Across the trees, a gentle man's glance.